Memories of Lightsbridge
by Sopih
Summary: When Rosethorn was Niva, and Crane was Isas, and the future was a far off cloud that she couldn't quite grasp but was happy to wait for. Rosethorn/Niva centric, with a dash of Crane love too. Oneshot.


Lightsbridge was wholly an interesting place, from dawn to dusk. As a school full to the brim of mages, it was almost guaranteed to be so, with the occasional accident peppering the gossip as a spice that would linger for weeks. The students were terrible gossips, enjoying one of the best rumour mills to be had.

And as such, the arrival of a brilliant, handsome count's son was almost too much to bear for some of the more impressionable novices.

_Isas is just going down a_ storm, Niva thought crossly, folding her arms and scowling. _Of _course_ he is._ She stared at him from a safe distance, her gaze nearly blazing a hole in his back. He was surrounded by people as usual, a noisy, talented crowd who wore power like expensive cloaks, so sure of themselves and their "genius".

There was at least a metre's distance in between her and everyone else. The Lightsbridge brigade had quickly learned of Niva's temper, only sharpened by Isas' irritating success.

She picked at her own clothes; decent, serviceable stuff that would last—her father had assured her of some money after she'd pestered him, coin pincher he was, after all the years she'd put into the land, too. But it wasn't the peacockery of that crowd. And she didn't want it to be either, she thought hurriedly, following the group as the bells chimed the beginnings of lessons.

Lessons, too, and her almost full grown. Her father would probably be grinding his teeth if he saw her like this, letting another get ahead of her and stay there. And Isas' notions about plants out of season! This idea of building a giant glass house to fool plants had her teeth grinding like her father's—not just the idea of how _expensive_ it would be—even with the money she'd made her father, they'd never be able to afford that much glass, even if she could convince him in the first place, wretched coin pincher.

She paused outside the doors to the university, realising she'd quickly gone full circle.

Damn Isas, him and his ideas and his wretched crowd of hangers on. _They only want his attention so long as he's doing well_, she thought crossly, sliding through the doors noiselessly and wandering after them. She could leave her mind to wander to itself while she followed them—it wasn't as if she could lose them, even in the generous spaces of Lightsbridge.

They'd tried it on her too, all oil and charm and rot, never putting down any roots around her. She'd sent them packing quickly, and they'd just made straight for Isas. _More fool you_, she retorted inside her head, _he's an arrogant ninny anyway_.

She blinked, resurfacing. The arrogant ninny was holding the door open for her to their classroom.

She lifted her nose up in the air and thanked him in a way that came out sounding as borderline insulting as she could manage without actually making it an offense. He blinked back at her, and she could see him wrestling with frustration and his own batch of irritation. He was too well born to be properly nasty though, she thought wickedly, though he could sneer down his long nose all he liked at her.

"Can you not be civil?" he demanded, still holding the door open. "After all this time?"

"Cork it," she growled. Not _completely_ hostile, but at least mildly rude.

He twitched, that _nose_ moving in a manner that suddenly had her wanting to laugh in the most awful way. She listed the properties of oak used as protection in her head until she could keep an absolutely straight face and breeze past his ridiculous nose.

Behind her, he was cussing mildly under his breath; Isas was far too polite to actually go the whole way and all out curse like most of the students. So was she, when it came to it, though it was no matter of politeness. She had too few words to waste them on cursing outside her head.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Isas joined them at the long table, looking disgruntled but trying to hide it. He slid in next to a pretty academic student, who gave him a sweet smile and a small note. Niva wrinkled her nose, smelling the rose scent from the other end of the table. Mila, but that was strong. Was the girl trying to _drown_ Isas in the stuff?

He took it, out of the corners of her eyes, and opened it, with a small wince at the overwhelming smell. When he'd read it, he scribbled something down, something that would be in his illegible, elegant scrawl, and passed it back. She accepted it with a smile and a flutter of her lashes.

_Academics_, Niva thought tiredly, draping herself across the long bench. This place was so dead, so dry, so… _academic_. All chemicals and powders. She longed for her room, her section of the dormitory, where she'd been allowed to surround herself with plants as long as nobody was allergic. Even though she had powders for the wretched people. No doubt Isas was managing, she reminded herself with a sigh. Isas was probably having the time of his life.

She risked another glance in his direction as their teacher came in, accompanied by a tall, slender man with a long, elegant black ponytail resting casually between his shoulder blades. Dressed well, she noticed carelessly, and then she registered who he was and dropped Isas like rot. Niklaren _Goldeye_? _Niklaren Goldeye_ was coming to see their lesson.

Everyone knew Niklaren Goldeye, rising so fast, already famous for his prodigal abilities at scrying. He was a good twenty years her senior, and she was in some small awe at his reputation—could he do all of the things his reputation claimed him able? She was well aware he was a lecturer at Lightsbridge, but Mila, she hadn't expected to actually meet him, not going to any of his lectures as she had been.

He exchanged a casual nod with Isas as he took up place beside the Dedicate leading the lesson; or, at least, directing them—Niva was sure she knew most of what they were doing anyway—but, of course Isas knew _Niklaren Goldeye_, she thought with a sigh, a little tired of this. He knew everyone well off, and from the looks of it, master Goldeye was extremely well off.

The Dedicate put heavy hands on the desk at the front of the room, shocking everybody who hadn't already been silent amongst the group into dead silence. "Everyone," she began gruffly, "I'm sure you'll all know Niklaren Goldeye, himself a lecturer at Lightsbridge, and here today to see our lesson. Some of you may've met Master Goldeye before." Her eyes rested briefly on Isas, whose gaze was fixated on Goldeye, and a wry smile curled her lips.

"It's not long now afore you try and become graduates, for some of you, and Master Goldeye would like to meet you now, before you get too big for your boots. Isas! Niva!" she barked, beckoning to them. The girl next to Isas gave him a pat on the back and a sweet smile, which he seemed to miss in getting up and nigh on running up to the front of the room to stand next to Goldeye. Niva got to her feet promptly, and made her way to the lot of them at a respectable speed.

She nodded to Goldeye respectfully, still a little awed by him, and scowled quickly at Isas, just to let him know she hadn't got soft. He gave a lofty sneer back. Goldeye followed the exchange, apparently amused.

"Bickering later!" the Dedicate announced, giving both of them a hefty pat on the back, steering them to the table. "Now. Demonstrate for Master Goldeye, would you, what you're both so good at?"

She produced a bottle of something from her robes, and set it down on the table. Their eyes followed it hungrily, Goldeye's following a little later, still crinkling with dry laughter. Niva opened her mouth, sure already, and the Dedicate raised an impatient finger, quelling her. "Not yet! When I say so, Mistress Niva!" Goldeye's eyes crinkled further.

She produced another seven or so tiny bottles, settling them down on the table.

"Now—"

Before she had even finished speaking, both Isas and Niva were running her over to announce the contents of each bottle.

"St John's Wort!" they chorused, only to glare at each other, and move on disjointedly to the next, "Valerian!" with Niva just a hair ahead, onto the next bottle with an exultant cry of, "Juniper!" from Isas, Niva skipping it altogether as he'd had it onto, "Rosemary!" at the same time, neck and neck for the rest, finishing exactly in unison on a mixture of ginger, peppermint and spearmint.

The Dedicate nodded, apparently unimpressed. "List the uses of each," she snapped out. Automatically, Niva began to list them. This wasn't hard at all. St John's Wort for depression, everyone knew that, anxiety, stomach upsets, insomnia, skin wounds, and burns, in a compound. Valerian for sedatives, insomnia, nausea and anxiety, and so on. What did they think she'd spent her time at Living Circle doing? Fluttering her eyelashes at the dedicates?

Master Goldeye nodded, impressed, and bowed to each of them in turn—Niva first. She almost blushed with the gratification of having a great mage bow to her—even after all this time it was hard to accept that one day she'd be classed among them, as they said; all she really wanted was to work with green things, Mila's blessings permitting.

Goldeye murmured something appreciative about their power in a clear, dry voice for a few seconds, and offered her a hand to shake. She shook it, again fighting blushing, making her handshake firm and bold. Goldeye regarded her with eyes near about dancing, and inclined his head to her. She knew her cheeks were stained red. It was impossible not to act a ninny around this man.

Isas shook his hand when offered gracefully, not blushing at all, regally inclining his head back. Son of a count, of course. But even Isas sharing the glory couldn't put her off this—it was glorious. She'd tell her father, and he'd be pleased with her; it'd soften the blow of Isas' success. She shrugged to herself a little. After all this time, it seemed that Isas would be neck and neck with her in all that she did.

She grinned, settling down back at her desk for the lesson.

That didn't mean she had to accept it. One day, she'd get the jump on Isas, and then he'd be sorry, oh, ridiculously sorry.

* * *

And somewhere ahead in the future, a tiny tree and the face of a boy danced around, waiting to happen as they dashed down a pathway that she hadn't yet seen, bolting behind a gate that hadn't yet been built.

Rosethorn smiled, blissfully unaware of the future waiting around invisible corners.

**

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**A/N-- Written with the aid of the Healing in the Vine, and out of a deep abiding love for Crane. Nobody ever pays any attention to Crane. Why, Crane, why?**

**My Rosethorn is younger, and slightly prouder, and aloof...I see her as impatient and proud, a little nettled by the still relatively new rivalry with Crane, but immensely pleased with herself at getting this far, and yet a little trapped by Lightsbridge...**

**Haha, maybe I'm reading too much into it. But Rosethorn and Crane love.**

(Finally fixed all the random errors, thanks )


End file.
